


Still Here

by TheTimeMachineJellyfish



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Alternate Universe - Fantasy, Alternate Universe - Vampire, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Angst with a Happy Ending, Camarilla (Vampire: The Masquerade), Crowley is a Mess (Good Omens), M/M, Not Unrequited Love but Misunderstood, Protective Aziraphale (Good Omens), Quote: We're On Our Own Side (Good Omens), Sabbat (Vampire: The Masquerade), Slow Burn, You don't need to know Vampire: the Masquerade to read this fic
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-01-21
Updated: 2020-01-21
Packaged: 2021-02-27 09:27:34
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,691
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22341037
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheTimeMachineJellyfish/pseuds/TheTimeMachineJellyfish
Summary: The Sabbat and the Camarilla have been at war since 1493. Crowley and Aziraphale had their own side long before that.
Relationships: Aziraphale & Crowley (Good Omens), Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 1
Kudos: 12





	Still Here

**Author's Note:**

> I want to give a content warning for this first chapter. I'm setting it at the moment of Crowley's reconciliation with Aziraphale after a century apart, a century in which Crowley thought Aziraphale was dead. As a result, he is not in a healthy state of mind when Aziraphale finds him, but he does get better. CW for references to self-harm, intrusive and suicidal thoughts in this chapter.

**350 A.D.**

Crowley had never asked for this. 

From the moment he'd truly understood what he was, that death would never come for him, that in so many ways he was now a version of death, he'd been in a nightmare. A nightmare in which he was now separated from the only person who'd ever come to understand him. Not even final death would reunite them; something else he had been forced to come to terms with. Aziraphale had been a devout believer, and Crowley was... a parasite, subsisting on the blood of the living. Even if he did himself in, he was destined for Hell. He would never see Aziraphale again, not in this life or the next, and those were the thoughts that haunted him most.

His sire had washed their hands of him a hundred years ago. Crowley had been wandering since and making a nuisance of himself. With no one holding the leash, so to speak, he got into trouble. Sometimes it was profitable. Tonight, it was not. He found himself bodily thrown into an alleyway, pinned against the wall by three belligerent men with swords, threatening to run him through if he didn't stop talking. Crowley tilted his head back with a hysterical laugh. Run him through, ha! The pressure of fists balled up in his jacket vanished. Crowley's knees shook but he managed to keep himself on his feet, hands coming to adjust his clothes out of habit rather than need. 

A voice cut through the whispering and mumbling of the spectators like a hot knife through butter. _Leave_ , it said, with a preternatural command that no inebriated human could deny. That voice was as familiar to Crowley as his own. Suddenly he thought perhaps he _had_ died just now. No, no, that wasn't possible. If he'd died surely it wouldn't be Aziraphale to herald him on to Hell. Or perhaps it would be? A proper torture, then. 

"Come along, dear." His voice was soft. Crowley's gaze came into focus on Aziraphale, who stood before him as beautiful as he had always been. His scent was so familiar… "We've drawn too much attention. We must go."

Crowley's brow knitted. "Aziraphale." His gaze flicked down to the specter's offered arm. Dare he? He tentatively reached out, shaking fingers touching Aziraphale's arm which felt solid. He allowed this specter of his friend to pull him along without protest. "Are you an angel?" Crowley's voice was low, too low for human ears. He didn't know if Aziraphale would even hear him, but then again, he wasn't sure he wanted to know the answer. What if he was? What if he _wasn't?_

"A far cry from that, I'm afraid." 

Crowley did not trust himself. How often had he longed to see his friend again? This felt like a strange fever dream, even with Aziraphale so tangible at his right, his arm threaded through his friend’s as he led them to… somewhere. Somewhere safe. Safe. Was there such a thing anymore? Did it matter? Perhaps this was Death, taking a very clever guide in order to lead him to his fate without contention. 

Aziraphale led him to an old, boarded up residence which, at first glance, looked uninviting. Crowley perceived the illusory power behind this deterrent, and he flicked out his tongue to taste the magic. If the man at his arm said it was safe, so be it. Crowley had no desire to argue with whoever wore Aziraphale’s patient face. If he was permitted to sit here for eternity and gaze upon his friend, it would be a kinder fate than he deserved. A meager light illuminated stone walls and a hearth, table and stool, wardrobe and beds. Two beds. Something in his chest constricted and jealousy surged into the forefront of his mind, an emotion he hadn’t had use for in a century. _He’s left you. He’s moved on with another. How could you ever think he loved you? You were a fool then, and an even greater fool now. Forever his responsibility, aren’t you? He only wished to be free of you. You’re a burden, his burden, and somehow you are still inescapable even in Death._

“Crowley…”

Aziraphale’s voice cut through the others and Crowley lifted his head, his gaze meeting that of his friend’s. He was still confused but just looking upon Aziraphale gave him some semblance of peace. The tension in his shoulders lessened, his focus tightening on the figure before him. The angel closed the distance between them, and he was so close then. Crowley could reach out and touch him if such a thing were permitted.

“I am sorry I did not come back sooner.” Aziraphale wrapped his arms around himself and what would spill from his lips but apologies. Crowley did not understand. The being before him seemed ethereal, his beauty only amplified by the tears that filled his eyes. Crowley sensed the weight of his guilt and as Aziraphale began to cry, begging him for forgiveness, he was overrun by the instinct to soothe his pain.

Crowley reached out and took the angel’s face in his hands, beautiful bright eyes looking up into his own. “What is there to forgive?” His voice was hoarse, barely a whisper. Aziraphale felt real enough in his hands, but Crowley had spent one hundred and eleven years thinking his friend was dead and gone. Trying to come to terms with sudden appearance, with his tears, his apologies, Crowley wasn’t sure any of it was truth, but he would comfort the angel. What else could he be but that? Surely, he wasn’t like him. Crowley couldn’t, _wouldn’t_ believe such a thing. 

“Angel…” Crowley drew the pad of his thumb along the figure’s trembling bottom lip. Hands slid over his own, cradling Aziraphale’s face. He looked ready to fall apart in his hands, so Crowley did the only thing he could think of to keep him put together. He bent at the middle, pulling the angel with Aziraphale’s face to him, and kissed him. Why not? He’d wanted to for years, since they’d been young men together. He’d wondered what Aziraphale’s lips tasted like and now, what was to stop him? Perhaps he would burn up in the angel’s light, the very essence that made him whatever he was. Soft lips parted under his, accepting. He made a wordless sound, a sigh that Crowley felt in his heart, that he would never forget. The kiss broke a moment later and Crowley closed his eyes, pressed his forehead to Aziraphale’s.

“Forgive me,” the angel repeated, dropping his hands from Crowley’s to pull the vampire into a tight embrace, “I would take this pain from you if I could.” Crowley’s fingers dug into blond hair and he rested his cheek against Aziraphale’s head. He knew the angel was speaking the truth, and whether it was truly Aziraphale or not, he believed it. There was nothing to be done. There was no reconciliation for a creature like him.

The angel pulled away and a weak, protesting sound caught in Crowley’s throat. Aziraphale’s fingertips brushed his cheek, smoothing strands of red hair from his forehead, and let go. Crowley felt colder for it, but he didn’t cling, didn’t want his desperation to be quite as stark as it was before. Slowly he was starting to regain a foothold in the world. Aziraphale suggested they sit down, and Crowley found himself nodding, allowing his friend to seat him on the edge of a bed. His eyes followed the angel who pulled up a chair and sat before him, facing him.

There was a brief silence between them, uncertainty crossing Aziraphale’s features as Crowley stared at him. Even now he could taste him on his lips. Even in such a state, he thought of kissing Aziraphale again. No. No, that was ridiculous. Inappropriate. _Wrong._ An explanation came then and, in some ways, it made sense. Aziraphale spoke of a sire. He had been shot with arrows and thrown into the river. Crowley had been told he was drowned but in truth, his sire fished him out of the Thames and embraced him shortly before Death. It sounded similar to Crowley’s own entrance into this damned life. Similar, but also very different. Similar as an apple might be to an orange.

“He- we, I should say, belong to Clan Toreador,” Aziraphale admitted to him.

 _Toreador_. For the first time, some modicum of relief flushed across Crowley’s features. He knew that word, knew what a Toreador was. They were the most beautiful, the most charismatic of the Kindred clans. Lovers of art and music, they served as muses in the mortal world. His own sire had hated them. Too clean, foppish. Crowley still couldn’t trust the words. He had a habit of concocting lies to indulge in and while he wasn’t sure he had _this_ sort of imagination, Hell certainly did. Crowley’s fingers twisted in the robes he wore, worrying them with absent movements as he tried to listen, to pay attention, to _focus_. He wanted so badly to believe, to think that perhaps Aziraphale was here in front of him, but even now, he could not convince himself that it was so.

“How did this happen to you?” Aziraphale wanted to know. His voice was so gentle, entreating. The angel who wore Aziraphale’s face deserved his words at least, and if it was Aziraphale, if he’d manifested in this form, whether he was angel of Kindred, Crowley didn’t want to give any reason to go. And if it was merely a figment of his imagination, well, Crowley was determined to cling to it until it dissolved from his very fingers.

“Gangrel.” The word felt heavy on this tongue and he swallowed, having been chewing on the inside of his lip. “It was… I was here,” he hadn’t recounted this story to anyone. “A year or so after-” he stopped short, unable to even give Aziraphale’s death the words it deserved. He wet his lips, eyes averting as he spoke. It was hard to look at Aziraphale when his death still felt so inescapable. “Saxon pirates came to our shores and I was here. I was,” he brought his fingers to his lips, tracing over them as he thought, trying to piece together exactly what he’d been thinking back then. Truth be told, he hadn’t been. He’d been torn apart by grief, unable to cope with the loss of the person who meant most to him in the world, but how could he say that? The angel should not bear the weight of Crowley’s incompetence, his utter inability to live without Aziraphale.

“I made… poor choices,” Crowley managed a quivering smile, “Captured the attention of a Gangrel prince. Found myself gifted with immortality I did not want. Not without-” _Not without Aziraphale_ he wanted to say. _Not without you._ To say his name aloud again made it too real. Too close to acceptance and if he started to let himself believe; he was afraid it would crumble. The faintest hint of a smile, a shadow of a self-deprecating grin, tugged at his lips even as he continued to worry the skin there with his fingers. “I’m sorry this is how I’ve come to you, angel. I-I’m not so sure I can be put back together.” The confession was not difficult, it was something he had felt for a long time. Death was painful and though he’d nearly succeeded once, he couldn’t do it himself.

“Please don’t apologize, Crowley,” Aziraphale murmured, reaching for his hand and pulling it away from his lip, leaving the skin there to slowly knit together. It healed over irritatingly quick. Crowley hated that, hated that as quickly as damage was done it was all sewed up, put back together in this pristine little package. He’d tried to do more damage unto himself than his body, his blood, could keep up with but it was just so _difficult_. And the yellow-eyed frenzy that would sweep through him was even worse. There were so many deaths at his hands, and what could he do about that? Being in the angel’s presence made him so very aware that he was unworthy.

“This is not your fault. It was something that was done to you…” Aziraphale seemed to believe the words he spoke so readily, pressing them into Crowley as he held fast to his hands, smoothing the pad of his thumb along the edge of his palm, soothing circles that distracted the Gangrel from his more self-destructive impulses. Crowley’s hands shook beneath Aziraphale’s gentle ministrations. He dared not accept this absolution; he knew better. He knew what he’d done, knew he’d attracted the great dragon that had come to feed on his heartbreak and his rage. Aziraphale wouldn't understand.

“…no choice you could have made to justify what was done to you. Do you understand, dear?” Crowley made a small noise, one that he hoped sounded like an affirmation he didn’t quite feel. He knew this was his fault. “Am I to understand you…” Aziraphale hesitated, “…the one who Embraced you,” he amended his words, “Are they in London?”  
  
Crowley shook his head. No, not in London. Likely still in Germania, though to be fair Crowley didn’t care. “I-I left him.” Saying it aloud made him feel like a coward, like a failure but he had seen no other option. He squeezed Aziraphale’s fingers tightly, enough to hurt a weaker being. “He let me go after I left the third or fourth time,” a bark of laughter escaped, “Too much trouble.”

Aziraphale shook his head at the words. “You are strong-willed, Crowley. It is one of your virtues.” Crowley had been staring at their entwined fingers, something he just realized. How long had he been looking down, unable to meet Aziraphale’s eyes? He forced himself to meet that gaze, brimming with a pain he did not understand or know how to soothe. He couldn’t be sure of anything. “That was very brave of you,” the angel said.

 _Brave._ Crowley hated his sire, hated more so than the elder had been right about him. He was a snake. His sire thought he could mold him into a hunter, an assassin, something worthy of reverence and terror, but Crowley was never going to be that. Perhaps if there had never been an Aziraphale… but he was so little without his friend.

“I’m sorry I-” He had been told not to apologize, yes? Crowley bit back another that threatened to spill from him, covering his mouth with a hand. He tasted blood in his mouth, blood from chewing the inside of his cheek. “I’ve been out of my mind for so long that I can’t- it’s hard. Difficult to focus, you see.” Crowley settled his hand atop Aziraphale’s once more and squeezed his hands, as if trying to find some sort of grounding. Truth was, he hadn’t really been this close to coherent in months.

“There is no rush, dear. I am not going anywhere.”

The angel was trying _so hard_. Crowley softened at the words. The endearments burned, caused his heart to clench a bit tighter, but he found himself yearning for them all the same. The encouragement came so easily, those eyes so worried and so very, very patient. Crowley felt tears prick and an unneeded breath hitch in his throat. He had dreamed of those words, though it had always ended in such torment. Crowley couldn’t help but hold his breath now, waiting for Hell to break loose or, at the very least, to wake up alone once more.

But he didn’t. Instead, Aziraphale was speaking to him, telling him a story of a shop he had visited where a baker had once lived. Crowley remembered the man in question – the baker - because Aziraphale had complained about his bread so, had been downright offended that the man had talked himself into a cushy position at a nearby noble’s estate, considering how often he misrepresented his terrible food. A smile tugged at Crowley’s lips, mirrored by Aziraphale’s smile across from him. Perhaps he could pretend this was fine, that it was real and true.

It was easier for Crowley to concentrate the more that Aziraphale spoke, but then again, he had spent all of his human life focused on his friend. Aziraphale had always known how to soothe him, how to teach him. He could take any number of complications and sort them out, always so careful, so patient in his explanations. Aziraphale had always been to good to Crowley, too good _for_ Crowley.

“How long have you been in the city?”

“I don’t know.” The confession was easy. His angel had yet to abandon him over his greater failings, so what was one more to add to the list? Whether Aziraphale or an angel with his face, they were each divine beings, were they not? Able to absolve and forgive and all that, things Crowley had never quite deigned to know or understand. Aziraphale had always been the one so in touch with Him, so close to God and understanding of His plan. Crowley had barely understood the plan set out for himself, much less the rest of humanity and he'd never much cared to. Aziraphale was good enough for the both of them, he'd always thought. Good enough because he was _so very good_ and Crowley? Just slightly better than awful.

He gave his head a little shake, his fingers now rubbing circles into Aziraphale's skin. He was doing it absently, a distraction from pulling at his own skin, picking at his lips or his own fingers. The softness of Aziraphale's hands beneath him was soothing in that he didn't feel the need to hurt them. All he wanted was the weight of them, the feel of them in his own hands. He wished he could pull Aziraphale closer.

“I haven’t. I-” he paused, pensive for a moment, “My family, they moved…” centuries ago, actually. Crowley had done a fine job nearly putting them in the poor house, but his father had been smart enough to save them. Crowley, for their sake, had been smart enough not to chase after them. “They’re dead now.” All of them. He was the last of his human bloodline. “I haven’t sought out much of anything,” he said softly. All of it, every bit of it, reminded him of their youth. He hated this city but somehow, he had been drawn back in. Memories tugged at the fringes of his mind and he had done his best to push them away.

Crowley had begun to sag somewhat, the tension that had wound so tight in his chest and shoulders leaking out of him. He felt exhaustion, a weariness he hadn’t faced in a long time. Crowley had been wrapped so tightly for so long that to begin to let it go was physically painful. He could think of nothing deep or insightful to ask Aziraphale, if only because there was so much in his heart that he wanted to say. The sheer amount, the vastness of what he felt, of what he wanted from Aziraphale he couldn’t find the words for and so he offered nothing.

“Why don’t you get some rest?” the angel suggested, “I will stay with you.”

Crowley found his voice, acknowledging Aziraphale’s words with a whispered, “Do you promise?” He resisted the urge to let go of his friend, to stand and to pace and to let the frenzy grip him again. It was so difficult to hold his gaze. One more word from Aziraphale and he would bend, he would accept it even if only for now.

“Yes.”

Crowley did not trust himself but he did trust Aziraphale. In the whole of their lives, Aziraphale had never led him astray. He'd been the only real constant in his life, the only person he could truly depend on. When Aziraphale had been stolen away by death, it hadn't been his fault. He hadn't willfully abandoned Crowley and that thought gave him some measure of comfort. Not only that though, but even in death, Aziraphale had somehow found him again. Found him and saved him from himself, if only for this night. Rest, _sleep_ sounded good. He hadn't done much of that, staring from pockets of shadow at pools of sunlight on the ground, trying to decide to reach out into it. He'd been burned by it before, felt the pure fire against his fingertips, against his shoulders, his back. Every once in a while, he still reached out for it, despite knowing the result. 

Aziraphale squeezed his hands gently and then knelt on the floor in front of him. “I’m going to remove your shoes.”

He coaxed Crowley to let go of him and it took everything he had to let him go. Crowley fisted one of his hands into his tunic, using the heel of the other to dash the wetness from his eyes. He chewed the inside of his cheek, his eyes trained on Aziraphale, watching his deft fingers unlace and loosen the shoes – first Crowley’s, then his own, neatly discarded.

Aziraphale sat next to him on the bed and offered a soft invitation to lay down – together, as if they were children. Crowley turned his body so that he did not lose sight of Aziraphale even as he settled into the pallet, laying on his side with his back pressed to the wall. Aziraphale gestured for him and Crowley shifted, drawing his legs up onto the bed. He remembered those nights from so long ago, remembered them in vivid detail. Aziraphale would read to him. Those nights felt so long ago now. Crowley lay down facing Aziraphale. There was space between them, but not much. It was small, not meant to be shared, and Crowley shifted closer still, until they were nearly flush together. Aziraphale wrapped an arm around his waist and Crowley released a shuddering breath, burying his face and the fingers of one hand into blond curls. 

_If this is a dream, I hope I never wake._


End file.
